


The Distance

by audreycritter



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, In Media Res, TW: Blood, boys in fast cars, shouting, superheroes being bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22061665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: Hal Jordan and Bruce Wayne are just trying to do their jobs-- at ninety miles per hour or more.
Relationships: Hal Jordan & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 41
Kudos: 415





	The Distance

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [The Distance 距离](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24681367) by [jiamulynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiamulynn/pseuds/jiamulynn)



> title from the Cake song. 
> 
> this is just a short about going fast because i love cars.

“They’re gaining on us.” 

“They aren’t.”

“You— you aren’t even looking, you’re watching the road.” Hal is twisted in his seat, watching out the rear window.

“They aren’t.” Bruce jerks the steering wheel to the side and Hal’s arm shoots up to brace against the door frame as they drift hard around a sharp turn. He cranes his neck to look out the passenger window, past Hal.

“Keep your eyes forward,” Hal snaps. “I’m watching. Just drive.”

“You thought they were gaining on us.”

“They _are_ gaining on us.” Hal twists again. 

“They aren’t,” Bruce says evenly, as the engine builds to a steady roar of acceleration. The needle on the speedometer is edging up to 90 MPH and they’re weaving through honking cars. Bruce’s head nearly brushes against Hal’s when he looks back, skidding around another turn.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Hal yells. “You should have let me drive.”

“I learned to drive in a car like this,” Bruce says. He shifts gears and they’re creeping back to a hundred after that side street. 

“Whoop-de-doo, I learned to drive in a Honda Civic,” Hal says. “That was what— fifteen years ago?”

“Twenty.”

“Fuck you, no it wasn’t. Was it?”

“Twenty-one. I was being generous.”

“I’m not thirty-seven.” Hal grins, cocky and sure. His hand is braced on the door. “Getting old, old man. Next you’ll be telling me—”

“You were fourteen when you learned to drive.”

“How in the _hell_ do you know that? Did you go down the line after we met, interview all my family and friends? They’re gaining on us.”

“They are n—” Bruce cuts himself off, looking in the rear view mirror. “Hnn.”

“Wall,” Hal spits out, looking straight ahead. “Wall. Bruce. There’s a wall, Bruce, there’s—”

“I know,” Bruce says, in that same infuriating calm. He grips the opposite side of the steering wheel and spins; Hal doesn’t have to be told to hold on. One second they’re barreling toward a construction wall barring a closed entry ramp and the next they’re shooting out in the direct opposite direction, flying past the black townscar. 

Hal whoops loudly and throws his head back and laughs. Brakes screech and there’s the distant crunch of metal.

“Hot damn! Now _that’s_ driving.” He turns to survey the damage behind them, the blooming smoke of the pursuing car crumpled into the concrete. Figures are climbing out as cars around slow to a stop.

Bruce’s smile is a mere twist of a pleased smirk. Hal punches him lightly in the arm, while still up on one knee on the passenger seat and hanging over the middle console to look back. 

The figures that climbed out of the smoking Lincoln stalk toward a man who had stopped to help. They are shrinking to paper dolls in the distance as Bruce and Hal speed away, but they are still close enough that Hal sees the drawn gun one figure raises without breaking stride. There are twin pops in the air, the concussive, reverberating booms rolling out from the murder like ripples on a lake.

“Shit,” Hal mutters, dropping back down into his seat. The figures take the man’s car amidst screaming. “They’re after us again.”

“How many people,” Bruce says tensely, the pedal floored. They’re shooting up a ramp so fast they might lift into the air at the merging lane.

“One,” Hal says, opening the glove box.

“Emergencies only,” Bruce snaps.

“I think this qualifies as an emergency.”

“You still have it cloaked?” Bruce asks.

“The fuck, of course it’s still cloaked, I’m not an amateur. Yes, it’s still fucking cloaked, I’m capable of multitasking, thank you very much. I have these little things called specialized training and years in the field. Is it cloaked? Goddamn.”

Hal ejects the magazine of a Glock 17 and locks the slide back while talking. He’s sliding copper-tipped bullets into the clip as they barrel down the freeway.

“This entire mission is pointless if you can’t keep that data core cloaked,” Bruce says, while Hal cranks down the window. “You do not keep it cloaked if we are arrested and have personal effects confiscated.”

“Listen, if the police haven’t gotten on our tail yet, I don’t think shooting out some tires is going to make much of a difference. Slow down.”

“That is the opposite of what I will be doing.”

“Dammit, Bruce. Do you want them chasing us until we run the tank dry? They’re not going to stop.”

“If you shoot out their tires, they’ll take another car and another life. Possibly, more than one.” The needle trembles at one hundred and ten. Bruce’s hands are visibly tight on the wheel and wind is roaring through the car. 

“Fuck,” Hal growls, frustrated. He glares at the dash for a moment before shouting over the wind. “No. We have to buy ourselves some time, we can disappear before they get another car, and this is billions of lives on the line here.”

Bruce’s mouth is a thin, white line. He risks a glance over his shoulder out the window and then guns the engine one more time.

“What if you accidentally shoot a civilian. Or cause another wreck.”

“Listen, that would be an understandable concern if it wasn’t me, and you know it. I’m not pulling the trigger unless I know I’ve got the shot. If you slow down, that would maybe help, but you’re determined to make this as difficult as possible. You’re all talk about mission priority, but apparently only until it comes to hard calls.” 

“Okay,” Bruce says. “I can stop them.”

“What part of ‘don’t split up’ didn’t penetrate your thick skull? That was _your_ plan, if it wouldn’t kill you to remember.” Hal has the loaded gun, the open window, and still he doesn’t move to line up a shot. The red car chasing them is weaving through traffic and gaining.

“We’re not splitting up,” Bruce says. “Take the wheel. You’re driving.”

Hal scowls at him for a long, silent second and then loudly exhales in clear annoyance, ejects the magazine and slams the gun into the glovebox. He cranks the window most of the way up.

“Ready,” he says, unbuckling. He grabs the wheel right above Bruce’s hands. “You go under, I go over. On my count.”

“Go,” Bruce nods confirmation.

“One,” Hal says, lifting himself onto one knee. “Two.” He’s holding the wheel alone now. “Three.”

The speedometer drops for a breath while Hal arches his back and slips over toward the driver seat, and Bruce slides across underneath taking his foot off the pedal. Hal’s foot makes contact with the gas before he’s even planted in the seat.

“The distance is holding,” Bruce says, peering out the back. “They can’t push that car much more.”

“So, what. We just go until one of us burns out an engine or is out of fuel, and hope it’s them?” Hal demands.

“No,” Bruce says. He flips the sun visor down and looks into the tiny rectangle mirror. 

“Now really isn’t the time to check your mascara,” Hal says.

“You’re going to need to slow down when I say,” Bruce says. He studies his teeth, and then reaches one hand into his wide, open mouth.

“So, I take orders about slowing down, but you don’t have— what the— what the hell are you—” Hal says, his gaze flickering back and forth between road and Bruce.

There’s a muffled groan and a moment where it looks like Bruce isn’t moving, while his arm shakes, and then the wet crunch of something giving way under force. 

“Fuck!” Hal says. “What the fuck!”

Bruce’s hand pulls back, covered in blood and holding a slick, pink-tinged molar. His fingers drip onto his lap and there’s blood pooling at one corner of his mouth, only to curve down his chin in broadening rivulets.

“I need you to slow down now,” Bruce says, slipping some thin needle-like piece of metal from his cuff. There’s going to be no saving the shirt or the wool suit. He pokes the metal into the molar and then cranks the window down.

“You’re insane. I hope you know that. Is that a bomb? Did you have a bomb _in your skull_? Of course you did. Of course. That’s just standard, run-of-the-mill crazy where you’re concerned. Shoes would be too obvious, too _easy_.”

“It’s not a bomb. It’s a modified sleeping agent.”

“That’s _so_ much better, I take it back. You aren’t insane, because that’s just the sensible thing to carry around _in your own head_.”

“I need you to get us alongside their car,” Bruce says. 

“Fuck,” Hal breathes. “I’m going to be sick. Y’know, I’ve got a pretty strong stomach, if you ask me, I’ve seen a lot of shit, but this is…I think you missed your career in horror flicks, you could have had a solid career just pitching ideas, if you…”

“Are you going to vomit on the car or open the window,” Bruce asks. “I’d like to put this in their car as soon as possible. It’s on a timed release now that I’ve activated it, and I’d also like to stop for ice sometime in the future. My jaw hurts.”

“Your jaw…hurts,” Hal says, staring at him. 

“Do you find that surprising.” Bruce meets his gaze with a level expression.

“You’re incredible. That isn’t a compliment. Dammit, you said a timed release. Shit, shit, shit. How much time? You couldn’t wait?”

“Twenty seconds now,” Bruce says. “Can you hold us steady alongside their car or should I drive?”

“I fly experimental aircraft, I think I can handle it,” Hal snaps. He’s grumbling under his breath as their speed drops and he’s navigating backward through the traffic now spilling around them. “Can I hold us steady, _Jesus_. Can I hold us steady. Be ready. They’re going to shoot at us.”

They drop into place beside the red car and the occupants are clearly startled by this change, but the driver’s window is cranked down and when the barrel of a gun flashes in the opening, Bruce pitches the fake molar into the car.

Hal holds the car back that extra second while the gun goes off, leaning back as it takes out his window. Bruce is hunched forward in his seat. The glass is still cracking when Hal slams the pedal and shoots forward before the gun can go off again.

It’s too loud to hear the gas dispersing, but when Hal glances over his shoulder the other car is filling with a red-tinged cloud and then the car veers sideways into the guardrail. If it flips, he doesn’t see it, because he’s threading his way through slower cars on the freeway as he regains speed.

“They aren’t gaining on us,” Bruce says, dryly. The words are a bit muddled and he has one hand pressed to the side of his mouth. Blood seeps over his fingers. 

“Towel,” Hal says. “Glove box.”

“Hnn,” Bruce says, depressing the latch button and taking the towel out. He wads it up and holds it against his face. 

“So, this isn’t good, right. They’re onto us.”

“It is not ideal. Should I drive.”

“Should you—should you _drive_. No! No, I’m driving and you’re leaking blood all over the stolen car. They’re on to us though. This city isn’t safe anymore.”

“I agree.”

“We have to get out of here as soon as we can— wait, you agree? For real?”

“Did I not enunciate clearly enough,” Bruce says, which has to be some kind of joke because his words are more garbled by the second. 

“So, I’m thinking, we go as far as we can, lie low. Keep moving hotels, maybe sleep in the car some, change names. Pick up some under-the-table pay where we can to cover expenses.”

Bruce cranks the window down to spit blood out onto the road. It catches in the wind and splatters the rear passenger window. 

“Nice,” Hal says. The window on the driver’s side is mere shards of jagged glass in the frame. 

“We’ll need a new car,” Bruce says, eyeing the splatter and then the broken door. “Something less conspicuous.”

“Where’d you learn to hotwire a car anyway?” Hal asks. “It doesn’t surprise me that you know, Mr. Fanny Pack, prepared for everything, but it is a criminal activity which is sort of the opposite of your schtick.”

“If breaking and entering and assault don’t qualify as activities outside of the law to you, I’m going to lose some of my already-scant faith in the Corps.” 

“Fuck you,” Hal says. “I mean that with all my heart. Just try to ask a guy to open up a little, share some shady, troubled times from his past and get it thrown in your face for the trouble.”

The freeway is more crowded here and Hal slows as he weaves around the traffic. The speedometer is no longer flickering near dangerous numbers. 

“I taught myself,” Bruce says. “From a book.”

“Of course you did.”

“To steal the car of the headmaster at the last school I attended.”

“Holy shit. Are you kidding? You’re kidding me right now. You’re not, holy shit. The headmaster’s car? At a school where they had a headmaster?” Hal slams a hand on the steering wheel and then his eyes widen. “You didn’t even do any time, did you?”

“Didn’t so much as see the inside of a holding cell.”

“Son of a bitch,” Hal breathes. “I cannot believe you.”

“It wasn’t a difficult theft,” Bruce says, spitting out the window again. This time it does not hit the rear window. 

“That’s missing the entire point. Even…you know what, never mind. Forget it. Where are we going next?”

“South,” Bruce says. “I should drive. You should sleep while we’re moving. You’ll have to keep the cloak up whenever we stop.”

Hal wants to argue but he’s tired and knows it. Catching a few hours of sleep is the best use of his time, so instead of fighting he flexes his hands on the wheel.

“You’re sure you’re good? Not getting lightheaded or anything?”

“The bleeding has mostly stopped. I’m fine, Hal.”

A ‘fine’ alone wouldn’t have rated much, but the name tacked on the end lends the claim a kind of sincerity Hal can trust. 

“Pull over or the ol’ switcheroo again?”

“Do me a favor and don’t try to sound like Clark.”

“Hey,” Hal says. “Clark doesn’t own all the words you don’t think to use. That’s not how English works, buddy.”

“Switch,” Bruce says. “On my count.”

It’s easier at 50 mph than it was at ninety, a stroll in the park by comparison. 

The wind whistling through the car is like an ocean lullaby and Hal is out in under a minute. He sleeps, his head tipped back on the seat, while the car eats miles.

Hal wakes to the chatter of radio, which sounds low under the volume of the wind. The wind is chilly but the vents are pumping heated air, while a deep, steady voice gives a brief overview of a recent battle in the Soviet-Afghan conflict. 

He blinks at the fabric-paneled car ceiling and the ring warms responsively around his finger when he cloaks the data core taped to his thigh. 

It’s still safe.


End file.
